anxiety, Living, motherhood, postpartum depression

No Use Crying Over Spilt Whatever

Pinch, pinch, pull.

If my daughter’s preschool teacher can inspire twenty-five four year-olds to use this technique to open their pint-size pouches of fruit snacks, you’d think I’d be able to employ it to open a bag of pasta.

Not so.

Employing said technique, I managed to send dozens of uncooked Ditali skittering across the counter. Surprisingly enough I caught myself before a torrent of curses loosed from my mouth, which is usually what would happen. I pressed my body up against the impending avalanche and managed to keep all but a few Ditali from dropping. I gathered the rest up by the fistful, after seeking out a few strays, and threw them into the boiling pot, shepherding the lost sheep to lead them to the slaughter. And the overused idiom came to mind.

There really is no use crying over spilt whatever.

If I had flipped out (as I said I’m wont to do), what purpose would it have served? I’d give my two year-old a few more choice words to add to her repertoire of words bound to be repeated when least desired? I’d pump my blood pressure up a few points? I’d push even more pasta over the precipice with my spastic gesticulations? Really, there’s nothing positive that ‘crying’ would have added to the situation. I’d still be a few Ditali short of a pound.

Not unlike the time I decided to bake Christmas cookies with all three kids. Though the ‘baby’ was fifteen months old and I should’ve been ‘recovered’ from postpartum depression, I still got stressed very easily, had very little patience, and hated anything that made my job harder. In this case: candy sprinkles. Each time a candy-coated ball hit the floor, my rip-shit meter went up another notch. Then Bella picked up the bottle, gave it a good shake, and the whole flippin’ lid flew off, blanketing the floor in a layer of rainbow-hued ball bearings. I felt the wave of anger swell up inside me, but like some out-of-body experience, I stopped it before it crested. Somehow, it occurred to me that it didn’t matter. Let them throw candy around like confetti, for goodness sake – couldn’t get any worse now, could it?

This is not to say I’m happy when things like this happen. Very often, you will find me cursing when I find myself under the dining room table on my hands and knees in the middle of dinner mopping up spilt milk. And stuff like this is just one more thing threatening to push me over the edge in my already heightened state of stress.

I try to be Zen. I try to employ my relaxation response. I apologize to Jesus for taking His name in vain – again (something I never did until I had the third kid, by the way). But like there’ll always be stressors, I’ll always be striving to keep it on the down low. Just like I’ll be finding those flippin’ candy sprinkles under the stove each time I pull it out for the rest of my life.

Legacy, Living

(Im)material Possessions

I sat staring at the porcelain platter in my hands for far too long. I did not need another platter. The delicate design painted onto its surface was not my style. Yet, it was beautiful, the fine crackled lines a roadmap across its surface. And flipping the plate over, I saw to where the roadmap led. Ireland.

My great-aunt and uncle traveled to Ireland numerous times. My great-uncle was consumed by a great need to discover our family’s roots, perhaps because his grandfather, whose name he shared, was the first to make the trek from Ireland to the United States. Unfortunately, he was not able to glean much information about him or other relatives of the same line. Thirty years after his death, I’m hitting many of the same walls. And nearly as consumed by that desire – though not in possession of a purse deep enough to do much about it save research from home.

So when I came across this beautiful platter made in Ireland, perhaps acquired on one their many trips, it was not just a plate, but a tangible link to my heritage. For not only have I never been to the homeland, but our family has no heirlooms from it. In mere moments, I formed an odd attachment to this piece of pottery because it’s really all I’ve got.

Then I realize, even that is more than my ancestors had.

Between the potato famine, extreme exportation of their own food stores, and their diaspora, the Irish came to America with virtually nothing. Reading “97 Orchard: An Edible History of Five Immigrant Families in One New York Tenement” by Jane Ziegelman, I learn that extended even to their culinary traditions.

“No other immigrant arrived in the United States with a culinary tradition as skeletal as the Irish. By the time of the Great Famine, three centuries of the landlord system had stripped it down to a single carbohydrate and a handful of condiments. Where Germans and Italians and Jews worked hard to perpetuate native food ways, the Irish peasant had little to preserve. Other immigrant groups used their native foods to establish a collective identity in the New World. Not so the Irish . . . they turned to religion, music, drama, and dance, among other cultural forms, to assert their identity and connect themselves with the past and each other.” (Ziegelman 59)

After the life they’d lived, they looked to things other than the material to sustain them.

The heirlooms my ancestors have left me are immaterial – in their composition, not their importance. They are stories, struggles. I know within my bones the legacy of my people. I’m calling on the lyrical muse of their lives when I write. When I laugh in the face of adversity so that I may not cry, I’m utilizing the gifts of their survival.

I still haven’t decided whether I’ll keep the platter. I’m still haunted by the phantoms of the past, but now I know their spirit lives on.

anxiety, Living, Writing

Back to the Future

When I was a kid, particularly a teenager, the only time I would clean my room was when I had a report to do. Might seem like faulty logic, but the crippling thought of sitting down and starting a report actually made cleaning my room look like a fun endeavor. I had to clear off the desk before I could sit at it to write, no? And Mom had been after to me to clean for some time now. It needed to be done!

By the time it was apparent I could not put off said report-writing any longer, I would become a conglomeration of the many phrases my mother often used to describe me: running around like a chicken with its head cut off, burning the candle at both ends, pulling through in the eleventh hour. And while it was undoubtedly stressful and quite a haphazard way of doing things, I would always finish the report – and usually quite well. I’d get some inspiration at the last minute and write like a fiend until I’d proven my point – much to my mother’s chagrin. While she did not want to see me fail in school, she frowned upon my methods. Clean room or no, I think I made her more nervous than I did myself.

Procrastination and spontaneous ‘Hail Mary’s have always been my way. Being out of college for over a decade now (ugh – how did that happen?), the phenomenon hasn’t been as apparent, but it still exists. Knowing I have a week until my daughter’s birthday party, I’ll putz around the house all week and stay up until 2 AM the night before scrubbing toilets and baking cakes (not at the same time). Well aware that the parade that runs close to our house happens the second Saturday of June every year, I’ll be planting containers with patriotic-colored flowers at dusk the night before. I’ve just shifted the focus from class work to housework. Though maybe if I had more papers to write, my house would be cleaner – ha!

But I am writer. As a writer not under contract, I use self-imposed deadlines to keep me active and productive. I follow my writers’ group guidelines of submitting a week before our meeting. I post to my blog at least once a week, every Thursday. Except for weeks like this. I’ve fallen off the wagon, people. And because, as far as I can tell, most cases of procrastination are born of crippling ideas of perfectionism, I am paying for it. Oh, the guilt.

I’m in the middle of revising my young adult novel. I’ve heard a lot of writers say they love the revision process, struggling through the draft process just to get to it. As someone who loves to wait till the last minute and work off an epiphany and has problems with spatial relations (chapter reorganization, wha?), it’s trying to say the least. So instead of figuring out how to fix the problem in the chapters I was due to submit to my group, I went into cleaning mode. Luckily, I had the perfect excuse for rationalization. My friend was coming over with her baby and he needed a clean floor to frolic on, no?

We had a lovely visit, and spirits buoyed by my ordered surroundings, I even strapped myself to the computer after they left and fixed the problem (I think – we’ll see how next week’s meeting goes!). But, like a game of dominoes, my cleaning pushed the writing tile back a day, which pushed the blog tile back. Hence, today’s post should have been yesterday’s.

But no sense living in the past with its failed promises and rumpled to-do lists. I may relive my bad behavior patterns from time to time, but it’s a waste of time to punish myself for them. Trying to change them bit by bit would be good, but being aware of them is a start, right? I also need to acknowledge what such behaviors say about me. I do work best under pressure. And while it’s starting to make me as crazy as it used to make my mother, it still does offer a certain level of success. And all of us really are just stuck between past and future. I guess it works to operate within some combination of the two.

Living, motherhood, Recovery

The Butt of the Joke

What is it about the fabric on the butt of a bathing suit? Is the fabric such that it always sags? Or is it just the mass amount needed to cover my ass? Maybe it just gets tired and worn out as time goes by – not unlike the skin on my body.

I had youth on my side with the first pregnancy. After # 2, my breasts resembled tennis balls in tube socks. And # 3? After that one, I visited every specialist under the sun.

Pelvis malfunction and a left hip always slipping out? Physical Therapist

Lower back and left buttock numb? Chiropractor

Developing bunions (found by way of visit for ingrown toenail)? Podiatrist

My husband, knowing it would no doubt get my goat (which it most certainly did), joked that he was going to trade me in for a newer model. Nevertheless, through exercises, adjustments, and orthotics, I regained mobility. But just as absence makes the heart grow fonder, so did I forget how much continued maintenance and exercise matters. Gradually, my routine lessened, then, went by the wayside.

Two years later, I have a near-constant stitch where my left hamstring meets my butt. The place where my abs weakened and spread now yawns open hungrily. I have saddlebags where once there were all straight lines and angles.

Now, I’ve heard of how ladies in years past, like those found in Rubens’ paintings, were valued for their curves and wide hips, signifying their life-giving capabilities. And I do enjoy a certain comfort with my body more now than at any other point in my life. Once upon a time, I was extremely shy about my body, even though I had a ‘cute little figure’. Now that I’ve seen it morph and grow and sag, I realize I should’ve flaunted it when I had the chance. But after bearing it all to give birth and publicly breastfeeding, I enjoy a ‘take me as I am’ attitude and a pride akin to battle scars, I suppose. Plus, there’s only so much stretch before an elastic won’t snap back into place. Just like accepting what your body is capable of on a given day of yoga, I accept that there are certain realities about my current form I must accept. It is what it is.

It’s also a source of great amusement – because as I tell myself so often – laugh so that you may not cry. And it’s something to share with my friends as we grow older together. Just the other day, I received this card in the mail from my dear friend.

Maybe with the increasing effects of gravity over the years, I’ll at least stay grounded ☺

Intimacy, Living, parenting

The Perils of NFP

I awoke this morning with a thermometer in my eye. My two and a half year-old, having recently mastered the art of crib climbing (as in, out of), came stealthily to my bedside and announced her presence by handing me my thermometer, point-first, in the eye.

“Thank you, honey,” I murmured as I deftly plucked it out of her little hand and out of range of my eye.

Rousing myself to face any day is hard enough – exhaustion keeping me down, thoughts of the daily grind keeping me from getting up. A poke in the eye by a metal-tipped prod adds injury to the insult.

Every morning for more than a decade, I’ve taken my temperature before rising, marking it down on a chart as part of the Creighton Model of Natural Family Planning. I’ve also noted other symptoms of my cycle, such as the start and duration of my period, any pain, etc. For the most part, it’s been no problem. For all the reasons that matter, I’m glad my husband and I have chosen this method to order the reproductive part of our lives.

Then there is the drawer of my bedside table, spewing charts from months past, always a pen, the thermometer. One more thing to add to my morning routine – the taking of the temperature; and one more thing to do before bed – recording the temperature (because I usually don’t have – or take – the time to do it in the morning).

And the restraint it takes to successfully practice Natural Family Planning. There are certain days in my cycle that we must abstain from sex if we wish to postpone or prevent pregnancy. Then, there are days when it ‘might’ be safe. That’s when the third ring of our circus (see last post) found her way into the world. My husband may never get lucky during that range of days again! Unless I/we decide to throw caution to the wind.

But, then, that’s the point of Natural Family Planning – and perhaps what makes it hardest for even the most God-fearing humans to practice. Relinquishing control.

I may not have been ready for a baby at that time, and yet, I cannot imagine my life without her love in it. And the personal struggles that I dealt with during my pregnancy and postpartum with her, have wrought changes in me that never would have happened had I waited until a time I deemed the right one. The self-control and mutual respect that my husband and I had at the start of our marriage have blossomed into a stronger partnership as we follow this method.

With the ebb and flow of my body’s natural cycles, God has a chance to interject His will into our usually tightly structured plans. There certainly is no peril in that.

Me getting over my control-freak tendencies – and avoiding blinding by impalement – that’s another story. At least I can find a new spot for my thermometer – because I’m thinking the crib climbing is just the beginning.

anxiety, motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression, Recovery

Three Ring Circus

Don’t tell my baby, but my third pregnancy was a huge surprise.

My husband and I cut our wedding cake to the tune of Dean Martin’s “Memories are Made of This” – we envisioned a life with ‘three little kids for the flavor’. But just like the top to the spice jar coming loose unexpectedly and dumping a whole pile of paprika in the pot, we got all that flavor all at the same time.

When Julia, our second, was born, we said, “Oh, yeah, she’ll definitely have to be older than Bella is now when we have a third.” God chuckled at that one. Just after Christmas just under two years later, we found out Number Three was on its way. Angela was born when Julia was four months younger than Bella was at her debut as a big sister.

When we found out I was pregnant, my husband and I were instantly wrapped in a cocoon of haze. Everything seemed blurry and just out of reach. Lost in our own thoughts, we wandered around in shock. We didn’t tell anyone right away because we’d always waited until we knew the baby was well on its way, but also because we were waiting to wrap our heads around it.

Mere days after proof positive, we attended a New Years’ Party. In attendance was a mother of three I’d come to know through the host. I knew wasn’t emotionally or mentally able to tell her I was about to join her club, but I needed some assurance that I could do this. She always seemed such a magnanimous mother, building her children up while laughing enough with them to keep them grounded. If she said it was do-able, I could do it. I asked her what it was like going from two to three children. She said, “I have never been more acutely aware of the fact that I only have two hands.” We laughed, her sense of humor seemingly able to overarch any obstacle in her way. I can still see her standing there, those two hands raised in front of her.

Her words came back to me once we were all home from the hospital. When someone asked me what it was like going from two to three, I said, that yes, there is some truth to the theory that it’s easier than going from one to two because you’re used to keeping all the balls in the air – but what no one tells you is that there’s always. a. ball. in. the. air.

I was a veritable ringmaster with all the balls I kept hurling into the air and trying frantically to catch and hoist again. There was no intermission. No time to catch my breath. And I felt like I’d missed a very important set of lessons at circus school. The fact that this circus took place under the big top of postpartum depression did not lend any sort of solace to the situation. There were times I felt like I was the #1 attraction for the freak show. But even though I was at the mercy of my hormones, I somehow made it through – and thankfully didn’t end up looking like the bearded lady.

Life is still crazy, but I’m feeling less so lately. It’s just the usual brand of crazy, the kind that comes with three little kids and the flavor they bring (aided by the hula hoops the Easter Bunny brought each of them this year). It may have been an acquired taste, but now it’s my favorite flavor.

Living, Writing

Dreaming in Blog

Last night, I dreamt I was walking down the broad, curving main road that passes by my street. I waved to my daughter’s playmates. I laughed at the bizarre boat race in the bay. I pushed my children to the side of the road when a snow plow came careening around the corner. It was at that point that I probably should’ve realized my subconscious was in control. Even though I live in New England, the weather does not shift that abruptly.

But no, I continued on down that street. I think there may have even been a parade. Then as easily as they do in dreams, the street morphed into another, further removed from my home. I passed by small businesses, restaurants whose culinary ancestors hailed from various countries. In fact, there were two such restaurants from two apparently feuding South American countries directly across the street from each other. I knew the origin of each cuisine from the outline of its country on the front of the restaurant, of course. And I knew they were feuding because, well, some things are just understood in dreams.

As I passed the front porch of the restaurant closest to me, a man in an apron stepped onto it and deposited something that looked like a pizza box on one of the outdoor tables. He was trying to sneak off the porch when another man in an apron stepped out the door.

He questioned him. “Aren’t you from [feuding country’s restaurant]?

“Yes, I’m just taking part in the ancient tradition of the holiday truce in which we share our culinary treasures with our foes,” he said, and moved off the porch.

The second man’s face softened. “I thought that tradition had died out,” he said. “I’m glad to see it lives on.”

All this as I moved (apparently very slowly) past the building. But time, like place, is also fluid in dreams.

As my husband and I (who knows where the kids had gone!) moved on to a nearby hotel’s sorely lacking continental breakfast and I melted my swizzle sticks in my cup of coffee, I thought, “What an amazing blog entry this would make! A story of cultural divides torn down, if only for a day. And I witnessed it firsthand!”

And then I woke up. Is it bad to say I was disappointed when I did? When I found out that none of that which seemed so vivid and heartfelt was real? And that I missed out on a kick-ass blog entry?

Now, those that analyze dreams would have a field day with this one. I walked through all these scenes without interacting. I created hybridized cultures and foods. I thought I’d found the answer to many of the world’s problems. I lost my kids. And thought melting plastic into my morning drink was a good idea (not to mention I don’t even drink coffee).

But if I had to hazard a guess, I’d have the following to say:

I stayed up way too late blogging because I was so psyched about my new-found versatility; said staying up late caused restless and insufficient sleep
Cause of staying up late meant I had blogging on my mind
I dreamt of coffee because I knew once I woke up I’d be dragging; I screwed up the coffee because my subconscious knew I wouldn’t like it
I saved my kids because I’m always afraid I won’t be able to some time in real life
I dreamt of varied foods because I’m always looking for something new and delicious; and because I’m apparently in denial about this blog not being about food.
Holiday traditions? Thinking of the true meaning of what we hold dear after Easter’s recent celebrations?
And I’ve always wanted world peace – even if it’s one restaurant at a time. What can I say, I’m a sucker.

parenting, Writing

A fabulous lady who stepped out of the blogosphere and onto my stats page nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award. Tiny steps, big journey first found me sometime in February, then we bonded over Star Wars and a predisposition to dressing our kids in Star Wars garb! No matter what our parenting experience, it’s the commonalities that draw us together, isn’t it?

So I looked up the definition of versatile for a deeper understanding of it. Visuwords, one of my favorite language sites, says versatile is varied, which I knew, but also skilled and mobile. I’d like to think I’m not only a versatile blogger, then, but parent as well; skilled in handling the various crises that come my way, such as shuddering and moving to another room when my seven year-old daughter sings “I’m Sexy and I Know It”.

If you find yourself nominated, you’ve been awarded The Versatile Blogger award. And then, you need to pay it forward:

Thank the person who gave you this award
Include a link to their blog
Select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly
Nominate those 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award — you might include a link to this site.
Tell the person who nominated you seven things about yourself

Seven things about me:

I love the combination of chocolate and peanut butter.
I was slightly obsessed with anything Jack Kerouac for the better part of ten years.
I am neither a morning person nor a night owl; I thrive between the hours of 10 AM and 2 PM.
I was born tired (which may explain # 3).
I am an only child raising three children (at times, bizarre!)
I love to sing.
I love to compete with my husband as to who can first name the title and artist of a song within the first few beats.

And the nominees are . . .

1. The Fulcrum Chronicles

2. Burgeoning School Psychologist

3. Mermaids Love Sushi

4. grrlscene

9. misslisted

10. A Calibama State of Mind

11. Sassy Sass

12. Unexpectant

13. Momma Swears

14. Off-Duty Mom

15. For His Love . . .

These fifteen fabulous blogs are not ranked in any way, shape, or form. I’ve found something that speaks to me in all of them, as I hope you have in mine. Thank you!

I’m Versatile and (Now) I Know It

anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting

Torn

I felt like a thief, stealing away in the gloom before the house’s inhabitants awoke from their slumbers. My voice caught in my throat when I called to my husband, “Give them kisses for me when they wake up.” It felt so wrong to be leaving, especially when they didn’t have the chance to protest. They’d been prepared well in advance, but somehow, it still felt covert.

I looked at the house as I drove away and waved at the closed curtains, the locked doors, the house already closed to me mere minutes after my leaving. In my mind’s eye, I saw my youngest’s eyes peeking over the windowsill to wave another time I recently left. I missed them already.

It took me awhile to settle into the drive, but eventually I pulled out the CDs I’d packed for the trip. (Yes, CDs – apparently, my technology is at pace with the frequency of solo road trips). I’d packed selections to fire me up for a marathon drive and a fun reunion at the end with a friend I don’t get to see nearly enough. I’d also picked stuff I can’t listen to when driving the kids around. I listened to the entire Beastie Boys’ Sounds of Science anthology and then switched to The Clash. While I was having a grand old time car-dancing and singing along, it was about this time that I realized, I must be angry. Punk rock, rap, ska with a driving back beat, songs with titles like, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “We’re on the Road to Nowhere”.

Was/is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Is some part of me totally repressed by my current state of affairs? Am I really unhappy with the way life is? Am I speeding down the highway chasing after the ‘me’ I lost somewhere along the line? Am I doing such a sucky job at getting respite time that I’m about to blow? Or did I really just need a road trip?

Somewhere around hour four of the six-hour trip, the soothing effects of the road took over. I got used to the hum of the motor around 2800 rpms, the feel of my hands on the steering wheel, the crick in the back of the heel from my foot’s constant 45 degree angle on the gas pedal, the dull ache of the full bladder that I’d chosen to ignore till the final destination. The traffic thinned, the sun came out, and my mind cleared. I thought about everything and nothing.

I realized that one freeing thing about being totally overwhelmed and screwing up postpartum was that my heretofore-crippling bent toward perfectionism was thrown out the window. Now, if not ever before, it was blindingly clear that it just wasn’t gonna happen. And that theory was thrown out the window, when later that night, I confided to my friend that I felt like I couldn’t possibly do everything for my children. She said that feeling came from me worrying so much about doing such a good job (i.e. perfectionism).

The whole weekend was a study in contradictions, me being torn in different directions.

Fear gripped me when we headed to the restaurant at 3 PM for lunch. What about dinner? Used to following a schedule acceptable for little bodies needing balanced meals, it took me awhile to adjust to eating whatever, whenever I wanted. I ate so much at “lunch”, I had chips and Twizzlers for “dinner” at some point in the evening – I lost track. I ate granola and yogurt for breakfast the next morning, but then gorged on a short stack with all the sides for “lupper” (we messed with meals so much this weekend, my friend started giving them her own names).

I wistfully noticed the babies in the arms or on the hips of nearly every person we passed. Were there really that many small children in the state of Maine or was I missing my own babies that much it just seemed like it? Though my husband does say all there is to do in Maine during winter is drink and have sex, so maybe there really are that many kids – and maybe that’s why he’s always wanted to move there ☺

Yet, I relished in looking at every single item on every single aisle of every single store if I felt like it – with no one to whine at me. I loved chatting with my friend with no screeching interruptions – though we had so much to catch up on, we interrupted each other plenty of times. I loved not waking up in the middle of night!!!!!!

I think what I liked most of all was being able to operate on the basest of levels. Basic functions: eat, sleep, pee, laugh, breathe, be. The weight of responsibility was lifted from my shoulders – if only for 36 hours. And that’s what I meant when in my last post, “that which I was trying to escape had stowed away in the backseat”. I don’t want to escape my children at all. I love them and will always – even if it’s the death of me.

It was just really nice to get away. Though, the squeezes I got when I walked in the door Sunday night were more powerful that any pressure I’ve ever felt in this trip called motherhood.

Automobiles, Living, parenting

Escape Has Been Compromised

I’ve spoken before about the nostalgia and melancholy with which I think of the sedan I once drove daily, but which has been consigned to the driveway due to passenger limitations. My escape vehicle.

When my husband and I bought the car, a Saab 9-3, we asked a mechanic friend for his take on the vehicle. He told us it was an electrical nightmare. But I’d grown up hearing stories my father had told with misty eyes about his own Saabs, “you know, the cars we owned before we had you.” I’d heard the wonders of heated seats with cooled air coming through the vents, uncompromising safety, and cool design. And they were born from jets, for goodness sake! What more could one want? I fired back at our friend the mechanic, who went on to bust me that I just wanted it for the prestige, “our baby will be sitting in the lap of safety!” Granted, we didn’t have babies, yet. But when we started our family within the next few years, our vehicle would be up to snuff with the latest safety standards.

We had no worries when Baby # 1 arrived. Then we had to install the car seat. Placed in the middle of the backseat, rear-facing, to ensure her ultimate safety, we cracked our heads times innumerable as we bent down to click the infant carrier into the base. When my belly swelled enough with Baby # 2 to make wedging myself into the backseat to strap her into her now convertible seat nearly impossible and very uncomfortable, we moved it directly behind the driver’s seat. Soon, we had another seat behind the passenger seat, too.

That’s when my husband started car shopping. His car, a Jeep Cherokee so old it actually looked like one, was rusting apart on the road. The girls loved riding in it because they bounced all around the back seat, but even my husband, an off-roading enthusiast, was getting nervous. He wanted air bags and latch-capability. He wanted more space. He did not want a mini-van. Neither did I – really. I wanted one when I sat inside it, flipped and folded the seats, slid the doors open. But when I stood back and looked at the thing, ugh. I was out-voted anyway. He decided on a Ford Flex, at the time, a brand-new vehicle from Ford. We got one with captains’ chairs in the second row, allowing for a pass-through to the third row, where we could put our oldest who was now more self-sufficient, should we need a third seat in the future, you know?

You know how people say the more money you have, the more you spend? Well, apparently the same goes for cars; the more seats you have, the more kids you will have to fill them. The Flex hadn’t even lost the new car smell before we found out Baby # 3 was on the way. Good thing we opted for the family car.

I was ambivalent. Three kids needing three car seats meant that the mommy who was home with them all day would be driving the RV-like vehicle all the time. No more Saabie. When I did drive it, I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of loss – loss of freedom, of my personal desires, of my tastes. Because I was no longer driving it wherever and whenever I wanted. Because I very rarely went out by myself anymore. Because it was cool – and now life wasn’t always such.

The Saab is a five-speed manual. It has a sunroof. It has bucket seats in leather. It is low-slung and hugs the corners. The Flex is automatic. It is has cloth seats that sit so high I feel as if I’m suspended above the road. It is a tank. Now, in deference to my husband, it is cooler than a mini-van. It’s got a cool, retro beach-wagon vibe that sets it apart from other vehicles on the road. It is beautiful and certainly has get-up and go. But it does not inspire in me a feeling synonymous with winding down a tree-lined road curving into oblivion.

However, that may be a thing of the past as well. In response to rising gas prices and only two girls needing daily transportation for the most part, we bought an additional car seat for the Saab. Today was the first day I tried out this new arrangement. I honestly thought I’d like it because I’d be able to run the Saab about more often and not chance the battery dying or the brakes rusting together. Plus, I love driving it.

But after looking down on the road from my perch in the Flex, I suddenly felt very small. The cockpit that always fit me like a glove suddenly felt tight. I felt claustrophobic as I ducked into the backseat to avoid the rain and fasten the kids’ seat belts. Little feet could reach the back of my seat and little hands could reach the window and door handles. Worst of all, my calm had been jettisoned out the window. That which I usually try to escape had stowed away in the backseat.

Escape has been compromised.

I do have a road trip planned this weekend, though, so we’ll see if I can reclaim some of the former glory of the Saab. Take-off is scheduled for 7 AM Saturday. No delays are anticipated.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile